Something Only We Know (32 page)

‘Not engaged.’

‘But . . .
promised.
’ I couldn’t think how else to express it. Ned had taken Helen on when she was ill, had been her friend and saviour and supporter as well as her
lover. It wasn’t like an ordinary relationship, you couldn’t just walk away from something so intense. Switch horse mid-race. That would destroy her. More, it would destroy our family.
‘She needs you.’

‘But she doesn’t love me any more.’

My throat went tight as I thought:
He knows! Oh, dear sweet Jesus, he knows about Joe!

Even in the midst of my alarm I wondered how I was going to play the next few minutes. Surprised? Indignant? Or confessional, a sharer in his righteous outrage and betrayal?
Yes, yes, she
fooled me too,
I could say.
She drew me in and got me to search for her ex on the internet, and I did it because I believed her when she said she only wanted to put to rest a ghost, and
now I hate her for the way she’s used me and for not being the sister I thought she was and for choosing to pursue a tosser – who’s married, with children even – and for
cheating on you, you lovely-lovely-man-who-deserves-so-much-better.

Part of me prayed like mad this moment was it, that despite the pain and fall-out there’d be, the uncoupling of Hel and Ned was now going to happen and would be nothing to do with me. And
then he’d be free and mine, and the world would slot rightly into place around us. My head swam with possibilities.

‘Hel does need me. Or she believes she does. But she doesn’t love me.’

‘How can you be sure?’ I whispered.

‘Little things. When you’ve been with someone that long, you just know. We’re running in parallel, just mates. Not boyfriend and girlfriend. There’s no intimacy.
We’re like an old married couple who rub along. It’s been that way for at least a year. Eighteen months, maybe. I’ve stuck it out – I do care about her, a lot – I
don’t want to hurt her or send her off-balance again, God knows – but there’s no real joy in it any more. We’ve come apart.’

‘Has anything happened?’

He thought for a moment. The hesitation seemed to last an age. ‘She’s changed. No single thing I can pin-point. But she’s gradually drawn into herself. No, that’s wrong;
she’s drawn away from me. Grown, I suppose, with having the job. You must have seen it too, how she’s going off on her own more. Going to a different dance class to you. I mean, she
still wants to see me, but there’s just more in her life. Which should be good. It is good. If she’s happy. Is she happy, Jen?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the truth about his girlfriend.
I’ll tell you what’s distracting her, Ned, and it isn’t bloody zumba.

So why couldn’t I break the news? Because I wasn’t one hundred per cent certain it was Joe she was seeing (although I was, really). Because underneath everything I loved my sister,
and still felt nostalgic for the days when we’d been getting on better. Because I felt implicated, and I couldn’t bear for Ned to think ill of me, even if he only judged me to have been
naive and stupid. But more than any of those, because I couldn’t bear to be the one who delivered the blow. Whatever his feelings for my sister, the knowledge that she’d been cheating
on him for months would just unman him. The fall-out would be horrible. Our house would be hell. And what if Mum’s worst fears were realised and the upset kicked off Helen’s illness
again? The bad planets aligning over her head once more, the feelings of powerlessness surging up. Joe nowhere to be found, I’d be prepared to bet. And my mother in her own fragile condition,
fretting from the sidelines.

Not on my conscience. I simply could not be the one to detonate the bomb.

‘I’ve no idea whether she’s happy, Ned. But if you want to end it with her, then you have to find a way to do it. Don’t make me your excuse.’

‘No. But if I did end it—’

‘I’m not answering.’

‘If it did finish, would you be—’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘I think I already know. The way you kissed me back.’

My heart was thudding at his nearness, at the trembling in his voice. I could hear how much this was costing him. I longed to say what he wanted to hear, to throw my arms around him and soothe,
to rub my cheek against his, and smell his scent, fold myself against him. The moment was there, opening up and ready for me. But he wasn’t mine, he wasn’t mine. Move away. Hands by
your sides, girl.

‘Please, Jen. I’m going mad here.’

His forehead coming down gently to rest against the top of my scalp. The bunch of flowers falling from my grasp.

The next moment we heard the noise of the front door clunking open and TV music drifting out. Before we had chance to rearrange ourselves into a less compromising pose, Dad’s bulk appeared
round the corner. There he stood for a few moments, squinting into the shadows, trying to make out who it was hiding themselves down his alleyway. Peering, stepping forward uncertainly. ‘Jen?
Who’s that?’

Realisation dawning, and surprise, and then his disappointed, confounded, moon-shaped face hanging in the gloom, just staring at us.

‘It’s quite like old times,’ said Mum, settling herself at the table. Hel had gone to some trouble, laying out the embroidered cloth and arranging my flowers
in a vase at the centre. Now she stood at the end with the serving spoon poised over her lasagne.

‘OK, pass up your plates.’

The truth was, none us of had any appetite. Mum looked zonked, still blinking from her nap. Dad was tight-lipped and glum, and Ned and I were too guilty to feel hunger. One by one we accepted
our food without enthusiasm. Only my sister began to tuck in with relish, while the rest of us forked pasta and quorn mechanically into our mouths, not daring to do otherwise.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Delicious,’ I said.

‘It’s lovely, darling,’ said Mum.

Helen glowed. ‘Loads of veg in there. Under ten grams of saturated fat per portion, no added salt, four hundred and seventy calories all in. I’ve laminated the recipe and I’m
going to put it in a ring binder, for easy reference.’

‘That’s thoughtful of you.’

‘When you’re feeling better I can show you some more.’

‘Great.’

Dad kept throwing me looks, as if he was trying to work something out. I refused to meet his eye, which I suppose only made him more suspicious.

‘Is it still squirrel-city at Farhouses, Ned?’ asked Hel.

‘Yeah. Caught a couple more last week. Bopped them on the head with a length of piping.’

‘You did not.’

I said, ‘How’s Pepper doing? Did he go with that family in the end?’

‘Mmm. They were so excited to take him.’

Dad cleared his throat but said nothing.

‘We had some more pups in yesterday, been left in someone’s front garden. So at least they were found quickly.’

‘Will you have to hand-feed those too?’ I asked, worried in case we might cop for one.

‘No. We’ve put them with a foster mum. The problem for Pepper was we had no lactating bitches in at the time. But this lot have landed on their feet. All black, they are, and all
boys. Four of them.’

It seemed to me that as we sat and ate, the room became more and more echoey. Our voices sounded small, as if we were in some big, high-ceilinged room, and the cutlery clattered on the china and
my drinking glass clinked against my teeth. The silences between each line of conversation were loud as thunder.

‘Did I use too much garlic paste? I could use less, and more herbs. No? It’s fine, is it? Is the mince cooked through? Can you tell it’s not meat? You can get quorn fillets
too. Do them like chicken pieces. Marinate them.’

My mind churned with images of the day: the grand, swagged curtains in the Caxton House Hotel; Rosa’s talon tapping at my laptop screen; the black-skinned girl in her shell pink tutu,
revolving; Vikki standing amongst the crowds, holding her jacket open to show her new T-shirt; Ned looming out of the darkness, touching my face, pleading. Ned. Ned. I’d have given a hundred
pounds to be out of this room.

‘And there’s stewed apricots for pudding,’ Helen went on. ‘Sweetened with Splenda, and I’ve made a sort of crumble topping out of low-fat digestives. But you
don’t have to have that if you don’t want. It’s in a separate dish so you can spoon it on. Or you can put fat-free vanilla yoghurt on top if you’d rather.’

I glanced across at Mum and she was making pretty slow progress. I reckon she’d eaten maybe a fifth of what Hel had dished out for her, and she was stalling, pushing the food around her
plate and chopping the pasta into smaller and smaller pieces.

‘The trick to healthy eating is not to have the bad stuff in the house to begin with,’ said Hel.

What would Owen be doing? What would he be eating for his tea, and where, and who with?

After a few minutes more, my mother gave up the charade. ‘I’m so sorry, love, I can’t manage any more.’ She laid down her knife and fork carefully.

‘What?’

‘Do you mind if I don’t finish? It was delicious, but I’m just very, very tired.’

Hel struggled to keep her expression calm.
Two hours I’ve been working on this meal!
said the thought bubble over her head.
Two hours, and look at you all.

‘Oh. OK, Mum,’ she said.

‘What I might do is pop upstairs and have another nap.’

‘Well, I can bring you some up later. I’ll save your plate under foil, then reheat it, it’ll be fine.’

‘No, really, I’ve had enough.’

‘Your mum needs to lie down,’ said Dad, pushing his chair away from the table. He’d eaten about half of his lasagne. ‘Come on, love. I’ll take you.’

Slowly, slowly, as if his wife were made of something fragile, he drew her arm though his and led her towards the hall. There was something pitiful about the small, shuffly steps she was
taking.

‘I’ll save you some pudding, shall I?’ called Hel after them.

Mum didn’t reply.

On my plate the bright red sauce was congealing round the edges of the pasta. By sheer effort of will I forced myself to swallow another forkful, but it felt like leather in my throat.

CHAPTER 10

Spring Forward to Easter!

With the holidays on the horizon, and family gatherings imminent, why not start planning your Easter table? The shops right now are full of those inspirational finishing
touches to make your home look — and smell — its best. Lift your décor and impress your guests with these witty and original pieces, all sourced from local craftsmen.

1.  Lavender and rose door wreath, £25—£39, from Heavenly Gardens at The Tannery, Fourgates Heath, www.heavenlygardens.co.uk

2.  Woven bulrush door mat, six designs, £52, and vintage-style boot scraper £95, from That Smart Shop, High Street, Tarporley, www.thatsmartshop.com

3.  Laurel and robin’s egg mantelpiece swag, £89, from Amelia-Grace, Watergate Street, Chester

4.  Cloisonné table centrepiece with scented egg-shaped candles — light individual candles, or combine for a stunning mingled perfume effect. £77, from Joyful Days,
Church St, Tarvin, www.joyfuldays.co.uk

5. Hand-painted Italian lanterns for indoor or outdoor use, £40–£60 each; matching marguerite jug and beaker set £45; laser cut crystal rose bowl £100, from
Romanza glassware, Abbey Square, Chester

I finished the piece, cast a glance at Rosa’s closed office door, and pressed send. ‘Christ on a bike, a hundred quid for a boot scraper?’ I could imagine Owen exclaiming.
‘Ninety for a string of flowers?’

Except he hadn’t said that, or anything like it. No word of criticism had passed his lips in the week we’d officially been back together. Only amazement and delight that, when
he’d turned up nervously to meet me one day after work, I’d gone to his flat with him and listened to his apology. Listened to him confess how much he’d missed me. Listened to him
beg for a new start. ‘I was wrong,’ he said. ‘Wrong about Chelle. Wrong about you and me. I’ve realised it doesn’t matter, the differences between us. I just care
about you too much not to have you around. It’s been agony without you. Please forgive me. Please.’

How could I refuse him? Last night he and I had spent the hours between seven and nine assembling a flat-pack chest of drawers especially for my stuff. A modest thing, not much higher than a
piano stool, but large enough to take a couple of sets of folded clothes, and with castors at each corner which meant it could be slid away under the table. It was Owen himself who’d
suggested and bought it. As he was popping on the last screw cover and I was picking up the little bits of polystyrene packaging, the doorbell rang and it was Saleem with the shop girls, bearing a
takeaway. Vikki was also carrying two bottles of cheapo cider, and we got stuck in. The mood was almost like a party. Owen put on
Question Time
and we took the piss out of George Galloway.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Keisha whispered, and I just thought,
Well, the main thing is, I have a boyfriend again – see, Dad? Ned? I’m safe
.

Meanwhile, on the home front, things were gradually returning to normal. Mum was getting stronger and every day the family seemed to shake down into something more secure and stable. There was
one evening we’d sat down and watched a nature documentary together and I’d seen this moth, newly emerged from a chrysalis with its wings pathetic and crumpled. The moth had gathered
its reserves and pumped moth blood or whatever into the veins, and gradually they unfurled and swelled till they were standing out like brilliant flags. And I’d looked at Mum and thought,
That’s you; you’re in the process of uncrumpling yourself
. Every day she walked a little bit taller, grew a little bit more confident. Every day one of us took her out for a
stroll that lasted a couple of minutes longer than the previous one. The weather was kind for March and we’d witnessed fresh skies, birds carrying nesting material, blossom starting to flush.
Off she’d trot with Dad or Helen or me or Ned, almost like a child being led along to school. It had become a ritual.